


Consumption

by Maverick



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maverick/pseuds/Maverick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Ichabod Crane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumption

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitsunealyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunealyc/gifts).



> kitsunealyc, I hope this little fic brightens your day. A very happy Yuletide to you. 
> 
> Two things I learned while writing this fic:
> 
> \- George Washington was almost nearly as pithy as Ben Franklin. 
> 
> \- While the term "ribbing" has its origin at around 1560, the teasing use is probably more 20th century. I choose to believe that in this as in all things, Ichabod Crane is just ahead of his time. 
> 
> Thanks as always to P for beta and cheerleading

Ichabod arose from his bed when he realized the insistent pounding he heard was at his door and no longer inside his head. He opened the door to find Abbie standing there holding a hefty paper bag. “Lieutenant, I didn’t expect to see you today.”

Abbie smiled and slid past Ichabod into the room and set the bag down on the small table near the door. “Thought I should stop by and make sure you weren’t dead.”

Ichabod closed the door and leaned back against it. “The Urgent Care Physician assured me that influenza is no longer a death sentence. That being said, are you sure it is safe for you to be here?”

Abbie patted her left bicep. “I got my mandatory flu shot, so I’m good. You feeling any better?”

He was feeling better. Modern medicine indeed had some appeal. “Well my fever has broken and what was that vivid yet apt phrase the Captain used –I am no longer puking my guts out, so yes I do believe I am on the mend.”

Abbie smiled and began unpacking the items from the bag. “Well I brought you some chicken soup and Kleenex, which should help you make it through the home stretch.”

“You made me soup?”

“No, I stopped by the diner. Believe me, you would not want anything I attempted to cook.”

‘Well I thank you for both the thought and the action.” Ichabod picked up the box of Kleenex. “And I must admit, I do appreciate the convenience of disposable tissues.”

“Bit more sanitary than handkerchiefs I would think.”

“True. Will you stay and share a meal with me?”

“If you’d like.” Abbie brought the container of soup across the room and set it on top of the microwave. “Now that you’re feeling better have you had the chance to do any more research?”

Ichabod shook his head -- the action was almost tolerable now instead of the boat on a stormy sea reaction he had the day before. “While I am on the mend, I must admit that I do not think I am yet up to reading archaic Latin at the moment.”

Abbie took two bowls out of the small cupboard above the microwave and began to prepare the soup. “Yes, archaic Latin seems much more like a week after the flu activity.”

Ichabod smiled. It was good to know that his illness was not so serious that it had stopped the Lieutenant from her usual good-natured ribbing. “Last night I did read a most illuminating biography of Abraham Lincoln that your sister bestowed upon me.”

Abbie narrowed her eyes as she looked at Ichabod. “Jenny gave you a gift?”

“Indeed, and I am to wonder why you did not inform me at once that not only did Lincoln emancipate the slaves, but he was also a witness not unlike ourselves?

Ignoring the beeping of the microwave, Abbie walked over to where Ichabod had settled at the foot of his bed. “Pardon?”

Ichabod picked up the book. “It says here that he fought against evil and darkness himself. That he gave his life for the cause.”

“Darkness? Let me see that book.” Abbie grabbed the book from Ichabod’s hands. _Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter_. I hate to break it to you Crane, but Jenny was pulling your chain.”

Ichabod was unfamiliar with that expression, but he could parse the meaning. “Lincoln was not responsible for the abolishment of slavery?

Abbie smiled and shook her head. “No, he did that, all right. However he didn’t hunt vampires. Vampires don’t exist.”

Ichabod looked down, trying to keep his smile to himself. Perhaps it was time for a little ribbing of his own. He kept his tone as serious as he could muster. “Are you sure? This account was very detailed.”

Sighing, Abbie tossed the book down on the bed and shrugged her shoulders. “You know what Crane, you’re right. Who knows, with all that we’ve seen, this could be the gospel truth for all I know.”

This time, Ichabod could not keep the mirth out of his tone. “General Washington was also very fond of using an axe. Perhaps, he too was a vampire hunter.” 

Abbie cocked her head to the side and stared down at Ichabod. “You’re laughing. You knew it wasn’t a real biography?”

Ichabod could not have stopped the smile that spread across his face even if he tried. “I suspected. The secrets of what we do -- of what General Washington did -- must always remain in the shadows if there is to be any measure of success, so those actions are not going to be found in any historical account. I do however appreciate your sister’s attempt at levity. Most days I find everything in this time so foreign. It was a pleasant surprise to be reminded that humor between comrades in arms still exists.” Of course the Lieutenant herself was his most constant reminder of that fact.

Abbie turned back to the soup and Ichabod rose to set the modest table. When they were both seated, bowls of hot soup in front of them, Abbie looked at Ichabod and then down at her bowl. “How do you do it?”

Ichabod wiped his chin and set his spoon down next to his bowl, unsure of what the Lieutenant was asking. “How do I do what?” Not sure if levity was called for, he tried for it anyway. “Eat soup?”

Abbie met Ichabod’s eyes with her own. “How do you handle being here? Away from everything that you knew?”

Ichabod sighed and fed himself another spoonful of soup before he answered. “There are a few moments every morning when I first awake and I forget. I expect to reach and find Katrina beside me. And then I remember and I feel the weight of those 200-plus years down to my very bones.” Ichabod took another spoonful of soup, the slight burn a balm against the bitter truth of his words.

“I must admit I allow myself a moment to dwell on what is lost, on what _I_ have lost, but then I remember why I am here. Knowing I have a mission, a sense of purpose beyond my own life and death. It sustains me. That,” Ichabod looked directly into Abbie’s eyes, “and knowing that I am not on this journey alone.” 

With a simple nod of her head, Abbie acknowledged what Ichabod had said, and took a sip of her own soup. “I don’t think I could do it.”

“Well I sincerely hope you never have to find out, but I have no doubt that you would rise to the occasion. You have a remarkable aptitude for adaptation. You are a survivor Miss Mills. Of this I am certain.”

Abbie blushed and looked down at her bowl once more. “You keep saying things like that Crane, and I’m going to have to check and make sure your fever hasn’t returned.”

“I speak the truth,” Ichabod said around a spoonful of soup. “This is very good. Thank you again for bringing it.”

Abbie smiled. “It’s what partners do.” She crumbled more crackers over what was left of her soup and met Ichabod’s eyes once more. “What do you miss most? I mean beside Katrina?”

Ichabod laid down his spoon. This was easier to talk about. “Simple things. Warming my hands over an open fire. The silence of dawn. The stars in the night sky. But there are things about the era I appreciate as well.”

“Tissues,” Abbie said, her voice laced with laughter. 

Ichabod nodded. “Indoor plumbing is also a revelation. And currently I am quite fond of these sweat pants that I am wearing,” Ichabod said, patting his legs. “Although I am not sure about the matching hoodie.”

Abbie laughed at the look that Ichabod threw the offending item hanging on the bathroom doorknob by its hood. “Don’t knock it until you try it Crane.”

“Sound advice, Lieutenant.”

Abbie picked up the bowls and rinsed them out in the sink. “How’s the food settling? No need for a trashcan?”

“All is well so far. Believe me, I do not wish for a repeat performance of the last few days.”

“No kidding, you had me worried for a while there Crane.”

Ichabod settled down on his bed, stretching his legs out as he reclined back against the headboard. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lieutenant, but worry is the interest paid by those who borrow trouble.”

Abbie turned to look at Ichabod. “What was that?”

“Something General Washington used to say – worry is the interest paid by those who borrow trouble.”

Abbie rolled her eyes and sat at the end of Ichabod’s bed. “You do realize our lives are constant trouble, Crane.”

“I do not disagree Lieutenant, but perhaps for today, we can leave well enough alone.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Abbie picked up the novel off the bed and raised an eyebrow at Ichabod. “So you liked the book?

Ichabod nodded. “I did indeed, historical inaccuracies et al.”

“Well, then you are going to love the movie.” Abbie grabbed the remote off the television. “Move over Crane and get comfortable, I’m going to introduce you to the wonder that is video on demand.”

“Lead the way, Lieutenant, lead the way.”


End file.
